"I'm not allowed to die out here.
Some people make that promise to God,
but I make it to my sister."

111 AC

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Two weeks later, Naerys sat in the queen's chambers, hands folded delicately in her lap as the handmaidens worked at her hair with mechanical efficiency. Their fingers tugged and twisted her pin-straight locks into intricate braids, pulling too harshly, and their combs caught in knots without pause. Her scalp throbbed with every tug, but she remained still, her expression placid, the discomfort swallowed into the quiet depths of her resolve. They were not like her mother, who would pause and apologize when she hurt her, murmuring soft words as her fingers worked through tangles. Only Fei showed any gentleness but when her eyes met hers in the mirror, offering a wordless expression of approval, Naerys avoided her gaze, preferring instead to focus on her mother, who reclined on the bed with her feet propped up, a pillow clutched to her chest like a shield.

Aemma Arryn watched Naerys with such a distraught expression, that it became too difficult to bear, and eventually, the girl dropped her eyes to her own lap, to the sapphire ring her mother had given her. The azure stone, far too large for her slender finger, spun loosely as she distracted herself with the motion, watching the glint of the jewel catch in the pale morning light.

She tried not to think about her conversation with her father two days prior, tried to suppress the quiet gnaw of guilt that festered in her chest. The king had spoken with such kindness, his voice gentle as he sought her consent. But it was only another burden—heavy with expectation and veiled duty. How could she have denied him? The man who had raised her, who had given her everything when, by all rights, he should have discarded her as a forgotten mistake? She had said yes, of course. How could she not? Her guilt had no place here. 

Meanwhile, Aemma could only bear witness with a kind of silent agony that filled her lungs, thick and suffocating, but refused to release into words. She had expected something—tears, a fit of anger, perhaps even rebellion—but Naerys had done nothing of the sort. She had simply bowed her head in obedience, and now, that very compliance twisted her grief into something more venomous. For the first time in many years, the queen found herself loathing her husband. What had he said to her daughter? Their conversation had been brief, but he had walked from Naerys's chambers with a satisfied smile as if the wheels of his plan turned as he pleased.

Aemma closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in her chest when suddenly, the door to the chambers flew open with a sharp bang. Wincing, she braced herself for the inevitable tempest. Rhaenyra had been uncharacteristically quiet these past few days, her absence noted by everyone in the Red Keep. Silence from the princess was dangerous—like a storm gathering on the horizon, dark and swollen, waiting to break. And now, it seemed, it had arrived.

The girl strode into the room, her silver-gold hair wild and her face carved in a fearsome scowl. Her eyes swept over the handmaidens gathered around Naerys before she barked, "Out! Leave us."

Her command cracked through the air like a whip, and for a moment, the maids faltered, unsure whether to obey the princess or remain in deference to the queen. Before they could act, Aemma interjected firmly.

"Your father has requested that your sister be ready by this afternoon. He wishes to speak to her before the ceremony."

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with a barely suppressed rage, but she said nothing, her hands clenching at her sides. The maids, casting uncertain glances between the queen and the princess, hesitated before ultimately acquiescing to the queen's authority and continuing their work. 

Then, without warning, the princess stepped forward, and the maids instinctively stepped aside as if caught in the pull of her gravity. No one anticipated the suddenness of her actions or the ferocity with which she reached for the ivory veil they had been affixing to the young bride's head, and Naerys winced, her scalp stinging as the pins were ripped free, dragging loose strands of hair along with them. From her place on the bed, Aemma gasped, her exclamation taut with protest, but neither daughter paid her any mind. 

If Rhaenyra was the sun, radiant in her molten fury, then Naerys was her moon, pale and trembling, sustained by the light her sister provided. But in the face of that rage, the younger girl seemed to shrink, dimming as though eclipsed, and she sat frozen, her gaze lowered, unable to meet her sister's burning eyes.

"You are a child, not a bride. Stop pretending!" Rhaenyra hissed as she gestured to the veil that now lay discarded at their feet.

Naerys's response was barely more than a whisper. "Like what?"

Without hesitation, Rhaenyra grabbed her hands and knelt before her, eyes wide with an earnest plea, her tone softening to something raw and aching. "Like this, Naerys. Say no. Please, just say no. Act like a menace—scream, throw something, refuse! Father cannot drag you to the altar if you resist, I'm certain of it."

At this, Aemma scoffed from her place on the bed, the sound bitter. She would not put it past Viserys to do such a thing. It is what was done with his own brother; dragged at just six-and-ten to marry the Lady of Runestone. At least her Naerys would not be asked to perform her wifely duties like he had. 

Rhaenyra shot to her feet to turn on their mother. "Mother, you must stop this! I have spoken to Father, but he won't listen! He cannot send her away, he cannot!"

"Rhaenyra..."

"You must tell him that he cannot. He will listen to you. Who else if not you?"

"You think I have not tried?" Aemma massaged her temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. "I have done all I can."

"Then do more!" Rhaenyra turned back to Naerys, her indignation giving way to desperation. "Please," she begged once more. "Say no."

Naerys shook her head, her fingers fidgeting with the sapphire ring. She thought of Fei's warning, of the king's benevolence cloaked in expectation. How could she greedily continue to accept his goodwill without repaying it, without becoming the offering he had implored for? 

Tears stung at her eyes, threatening to break the composure she clung to like a fragile shield, but before they could fall, she stood, wrapping her arms around Rhaenyra's waist in a forlorn embrace, burying her face in the leather of her sister's riding habit. She smelled of fire and brimstone, of the early morning breeze that still clung to her after her daily rides. The polished gold clasps of her tunic dug painfully into Naerys's cheek, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath as Rhaenyra sighed, her irritation dissipating into something mournful. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around the younger girl, resting her chin atop her head. 

"Why will you not refuse?"

Naerys shook her head against her sister's chest, her words barely audible. "I cannot disobey Father, Nyra. You know I cannot."

The older princess pulled away, her hand still wrapped tightly around her wrist, as if the physical connection could anchor them both to each other. For several heartbeats, she stood there, her brow furrowing, as though making some unspoken decision, and then, with a determined nod to herself, she began to pull Naerys toward the door.

"Where are you taking her, Rhaenyra?" Aemma demanded apprehensively. "Your sister is not finished with her preparations yet."

"Away," Rhaenyra responded without looking back.

"But the wedding—"

"It can wait! Everything can wait. I have things to say to my sister, and if none of you will leave us," her gaze swept around the room, her eyes aflame with defiance, "then I shall take her with me."

Without waiting for a response, she pulled Naerys through the door, her stride long and purposeful. The instant they were out of sight of their mother, her pace quickened until it became a full-fledged run.

By now, their fingers had entwined, and though Naerys struggled to match her sister's pace, she lifted her heavy skirts, hoisting them to her knees to free her legs. The decorum ingrained in her scolded her inwardly—her stockings, on full display, might scandalize any who happened to see, but, for once, those small anxieties seemed to slip away, overcome by something almost liberating. Running through the labyrinthine corridors and spiralling stairways of the Red Keep with Rhaenyra felt a little like the childhood that seemed to be slipping away from her. It was as though the years had melted away, and they were once again children playing chase through shadowed halls, laughing as they slipped from the watchful eyes of duty.

When they finally burst through the castle's grand doors and onto the open grounds, Rhaenyra slowed her pace, leading them toward the towering Dragonpit that loomed ahead. Naerys pulled her hand free just as they reached the entrance, and she stood there, bent slightly at the waist, panting as she tried to catch her breath. Her pristine skirts, still gathered in her hands, were now clutched tightly in fear that they might trail on the ground, staining the delicate cream-coloured lace with dust and dragon dung.

"Well, come on then, don't stop now," Rhaenyra urged impatiently.

Naerys frowned, her forehead creasing in confusion. "What are we doing here?"

"We're leaving."

"What? Why are we leaving? Where would we even go?"

"Anywhere!" Rhaenyra's voice was breathless, her excitement palpable. "We can fly across the Narrow Sea. Essos, Sothoryos—wherever we want! We could explore the ruins of Zamettar or see the forgotten cities of Gorosh. I know how you love the histories, and now you shall see it with your very own eyes. We don't have to stay here, Naerys. We can leave now."

A laugh—half shocked, half incredulous—escaped the younger girl, her hand flying to her mouth as the sound spilled forth. "Nyra, you're not making any sense."

But her sister wasn't listening, and she continued almost feverishly. "We can take Syrax and go right now. Be whoever we want. You don't have to do this. You don't have to marry some oaf, spend your life on a birthing bed, bleeding for a man you don't even know. You don't have to die!"

Naerys flinched, her lips pulling down with a tremble. "You think I'm going to die?"

Rhaenyra froze, and then her face flushed in embarrassment as she scrubbed a hand across her eyes. She could not—would not cry. She would not let her sister see how much this bothered her. 

"Answer me," Naerys probed again. "Am I going to die?"

"No...I—I...it seems that I am going about this all wrong. I am sorry."

"You did not answer my question."

"I do not wish to."

"Then why say such a thing...why—" Naerys's breath hitched, her throat clogged with the beginning of a sob. "How could you say such a thing? You're supposed to make me feel better. You're supposed to tell me that it won't be so bad, and that I'll be alright."

Rhaenyra shook her head resolutely. "I will not lie to you, or ply you full of false promises like Mother and Father. I do not wish to lure you into a false sense of comfort. I want you to run away with me, so let's just go."

Her words hung in the air between them, shimmering with possibility, and Naerys's heart ached with the temptation of it all, the wildness of the dream that her sister was offering her. A life untethered, free from the suffocating expectations that had always been draped upon her shoulders like an invisible shroud. But then her immutable reality crept back in, and she shook her head, trying to explain. 

"We cannot. You know we cannot."

"You will be trapped in a castle far away from everyone you love and made to squeeze out heirs for him."

"Stop it!"

"It is true. I know it. Have you not heard the tales?"

"Mother said that he is the youngest son, and will inherit nothing," Naerys insisted, though her voice was small as if she was unsure of her argument. "He will not need heirs so I will not need to bed him...ever, she said."

Her sister scoffed bitterly. "You think inheritance will stop a man? Mother is lying to you. They are all lying to you. Men do not need a reason to sire children. Their greed for lineage, their hunger to see their own blood walk the earth is all the reason they need."

"Stop...please. I do not wish to hear it." Naerys dropped her skirts and clapped her hands over the ears. "You are being cruel."

"I am being truthful! This is why we have to leave! This is a fate neither of us deserves. You think Father will stop with you? Who knows what idiot he has planned for my betrothal?"

"I cannot leave."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed, frustration blooming across her face. "Why not?"

Naerys opened her mouth, but no words came at first, her hands waving in the air, grasping for an explanation that she couldn't quite articulate. "I don't know... Mother, Father, everyone! What will everyone say? We cannot just—just run away!"

"Who cares about everyone else? We'll write to Mother so she does not worry. And Father—well, I'm angry with him, so perhaps we won't write to him for a time, but if you want to, we can. Just say yes. Come with me. You and I forever, we will never tire of each other the way husbands and wives do. Please."

Looking into her sister's violet eyes—those same passionate eyes she had always admired—Naerys felt momentarily hypnotized. She wanted to believe her so badly. To believe that they could run away and be free, and part of her did. She believed in Rhaenyra, and her determination to bend the world to her will, but it was the world she did not trust. She knew the truth of things, as much as she wished otherwise.

"I'm sorry, Nyra, you know I cannot. I do not have the same freedoms you do."

Rhaenyra's expression faltered, and for the first time, Naerys saw the despair beneath the bravado. There was the raw, unspoken fear of a sister who wanted to protect her, but also longed for her own escape, and in that moment, it felt as though the sky had fallen, as if the sun had forever turned its face away.

"Then make me a promise?" she finally stated. 

Naerys gave her a watery giggle. "You've never let me say no to any of your requests."

"You're saying no to me right now. You are saying no and breaking my heart."

"I am sorry, sister."

"You're not allowed to die."

"Rhaenyra...."

The princess winced. Her little sister had used her full name, not the childhood moniker she always used, and it was even said in that same disapproving tone their mother used.

"I mean it, Naerys. You are not allowed to die. You are not allowed to bear his children and die in the process. You cannot let him kill you."

"Is this your way of making me feel better?"

"Yes. Now swear it. Swear that you'll tell me if he lays even a single finger on you, and I'll feed him to Syrax."

"Then you'll be in big trouble."

"You know I'd do it for you. Just say the word, and I'll do it."

"Nyra..." Naerys began.

"You have to promise me."

"Okay. Okay, I promise."

Rhaenyra nodded. "Good. Now let's go."

"Go?" Naerys yelped as Rhaenyra began to drag her through the familiar caves of the Dragonpit. "Where are we going?"

"On a ride, where else?"

"I—I can't do that. My dress will be ruined, and I'll smell like dragon!"

Rolling her eyes, the older girl exaggeratedly mimicked the motion of hoisting her skirts up to her waist. "Your dress will be just fine. And besides, you're blood of the dragon, Naerys. Your husband would be a fool to be offended that you look like it."

"Father says I should work hard to please my new husband."

Rhaenyra stopped in her tracks, turning to her with a fierce look. "No! No, you must not." She glanced around at the grime and soot that clung to the walls of the Dragonpit, as though considering whether she should smear her sister's face with it, to cover the innocent radiance that might make her too desirable. "Perhaps I might give you another haircut."

Naerys's face paled at the thought. "Oh no, not again!"

"It would do the trick. Mother would be furious. She'd confine me to my chambers, and she'd do the same to you as well for allowing me to do it. It would be perfect, and maybe this time I'll actually bald you."

"I don't want to be bald!"

"If I do it well enough, your husband would be repelled. Let him be so disgusted that he stays far away from you. Best he never lays a single finger on you."

"Have you... have you seen him?" Naerys asked hesitantly. 

"He is hideous."

"Oh."

The younger girl's grimace deepened. Sensing her sister's worry, Rhaenyra relented, amending her statement with a sigh. "Well, not hideous. Just... mediocre. Another unremarkable man, irrelevant, and certainly not worthy of my sister."

For the first time in what felt like weeks, a small giggle bubbled out of Naerys's throat, and she playfully swatted at Rhaenyra's arm. "Surely you jest."

The princess's lips curled into a smirk. "What I can say for certain is that he's most definitely not to your tastes."

Naerys blushed, suddenly shy. "I have no tastes. I don't care for such things."

"Willem Stokeworth does not have the red hair you seem to be so fond of."

Stiffening, the YiTish girl avoided her sister's knowing gaze. She nodded hastily, clutching onto the safest answer. "You are right. I adore Lady Alicent. Oh, how I shall miss her."

Rhaenyra let out an exasperated huff, swatting her playfully on the shoulder again. "Alicent is my friend, and she is not who I speak of."

Naerys shrugged, but the lightness of the moment had already faded. She withdrew slightly, suddenly feeling like a child caught in a secret game she didn't wish to play anymore. The mention of her childish infatuation with a certain Hightower boy sent a hot wave of shame through her. What an utter fool she must seem. What an utter fool everyone must think her. And if he ever found out, if he ever knew—he would surely laugh, dismissing her as simple-minded.

"It does not matter."

Rhaenyra's teasing smile faltered. She could see the shadows creep back into her expression, and with it, the weight she always carried and the fear of being seen. 

"It does matter," she whispered, retaking Naerys's hand, her demeanour fierce with affection. "It matters because you matter. You deserve to be with someone who sees you, and cares for your wellbeing. Not someone who only wants what they can take from you."

"It's not like I have a choice, Nyra. What else am I supposed to do?"

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched, her expression steeled with defiance. "I have a choice," she declared, but there was an unshakable conviction in her tone. "And if I have to carve that choice out for you too, then I will. You are my sister, and you deserve more than what they would give you. More than what any man would ever dare to think you're worth."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The wedding ceremony was a sombre affair, a lavish facade that could hardly mask its stark simplicity. It was a union of a bastard daughter and a youngest son, a pairing that warranted no grandiosity, and the guests murmured quietly, a far cry from the lively banter that normally accompanied such occasions. No amount of gold-threaded banners or fine musicians could dispel the gloom that hung like a suffocating fog over the hall.

The only ones who seemed determined to uphold the pretense of joy were the king, his Hand, and the groom's own father. Their smiles were too wide, too practiced, the forced cheerfulness clashing with the solemnity of the moment. The king's laugh rang hollow each time he attempted to lighten the mood, and though Lord Stokeworth clapped in time with the music, there was no mistaking the undercurrent of tension in his posture.

The queen, pregnant and pale, sat with her hands protectively cradling her swollen belly, her lips remaining curled into a tight grimace, too weary or unwilling to muster the energy required for a smile. Those in attendance would assume her sour expression was due to her taxing condition, but those who knew her best could sense a deeper discomfort as she stared ahead, unseeing, lost in thoughts far removed from the ceremony.

The eldest princess, on the other hand, made no effort to mask her displeasure. Her scowl was fearsome, carved into her features by a deity of war, and her knuckles whitened where she gripped the arms of her chair, as though she might leap from her seat and tear apart anyone who dared speak to her. She radiated hostility, a wild, untamed dragon ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

And then there was the bride herself, standing at the front of the room like a child in borrowed clothes, draped in finery that did not belong to her. Her gown, though exquisitely crafted, did little to hide the dirt-smudged along the lacy edges of her skirts, remnants of her recent absence that no amount of hurried cleaning could erase. The dim lighting softened the roughness of her appearance, but to a discerning eye, the imperfections were obvious. Her veil had been hastily thrown over her dishevelled, windswept hair, a testament to the maids' frantic attempts to make her presentable after her older sister had returned her just minutes before the event. She looked lost in the voluminous layers of silk and taffeta that dwarfed her small form.

Standing beside her husband, Naerys kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the floor, as if by refusing to look at the gathering of nobles, she could distance herself from the whole occasion. The Septon droned on, but the words flowed over her like a meaningless tide, and she felt detached from it all, her mind numb, save for the warm, clammy pressure of her husband's hand clasped around her own. Her other hand twitched at her side, fingers rubbing absently against the silky fabric of her dress as though seeking some relief from the tension winding through her body.

Her husband—Willem Stokeworth—looked just as miserable as she felt, though there was no comfort in that shared misery. She snuck a glance up at him, Rhaenyra's words ringing in her ears. He was unremarkable, just as her sister had said. His dark hair hung in uneven waves around his face, brushing against his shoulders in a way that gave him an unkempt, half-hearted appearance. His eyes, dark and half-lidded, seemed glazed over, lost in some distant thought—or perhaps dulled by the alcohol that clung to him like a sour perfume.

He reeked of drink, and Naerys found herself stifling the irrational urge to tear off her veil and throw it in the Septon's face. Her father was marrying her off to a drunkard, a man who couldn't even be bothered to show up sober to his own wedding. Resentment surged within her, mingled with despair, but she forced it down, focusing instead on the repetitive motion of her fingers against her gown. 

The formalities seemed to drag on endlessly, but at last, there was a shift in the Septon's tone. Naerys realized with a start that the man had stopped speaking, and it was only when she saw Lord Stokeworth elbow his son sharply in the ribs that she understood it was his turn to act. Willem scrambled to follow the ritual, his movements clumsy as he fumbled with the cloak that bore the sigil of his house. He then peeled the Targaryen cloak from Naerys's shoulders and replaced it with his own, the fabric falling heavily against her back.

As his fingers brushed her skin in the process, his young bride flinched, a subtle but unmistakable recoil that did not go unnoticed. Willem's dark eyes flickered with frustration, and beneath his breath, he muttered a string of curses meant only for himself.

He swore at his father, at the gods, at the situation that had led him to this moment. A drunkard and a bastard—what fitting punishment this was, a farce to match the shame he had brought upon his family. He glanced at the girl out of the corner of his eye, his lip curling slightly. She was pitiful, nothing like the sultry YiTish whores he had tasted in the brothels across the kingdom, with their painted eyes and practiced smiles. 

The princess was none of those things—a legitimized bastard with a noble name, but still a child. At least if she were older, there might have been some entertainment in bedding such an exotic creature, but as it was, she was no more than a lamb being led to the slaughter. Besides, there was no amusement to be found in a bride who looked ready to faint at the first sign of her husband's touch, and in truth, Willem found the whole ordeal repulsive. He had no shortage of women who practically begged for a place in his bed. 

He could feel his father's eyes on him, watching, judging, as if this marriage were some grand lesson in restraint. Father thinks this will tame me, he thought bitterly, biting back a sneer. But how could this fragile creature tame anything? It was a punishment, plain and simple.

Let this be a reminder, the older man had said. Her shame is yours now, as yours is hers. Don't forget it.

As the Septon finished the rites, Willem's mind wandered far from the solemn vows he was supposed to take seriously. His fingers tightened slightly around his young wife's as the ceremony drew to a close, not out of affection, but out of a simmering frustration that had no outlet, purposely ignoring the way she squirmed uncomfortably in his hold. 

The hall erupted in polite applause, but all Willem wanted was to drown himself in another bottle of wine and forget the day entirely, and when Naerys glanced up at him, searching his face for some sign of reassurance, he only stared straight ahead, his expression a mask of barely concealed contempt. 

She would find no comfort here. Neither of them would, and the silence that inaugurated their marriage was a prelude to an eruption, waiting to spill its molten fury across the brittle veneer of duty.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

At the grand table, Naerys sat demurely with her spine rigid, though one hand still compulsively scrubbed against her dress. The feast following the vows was lively and exuberant, but it felt miles away. The hall, with its high arches and brightly burning torches, was awash with merriment, and the guests danced, laughed, and toasted her health, but none of it reached her. The music was too loud, the clinking goblets too jarring, and the smell of roasted meats too rich, turning her stomach into knots. Even the weight of her own gown felt unbearable, the scratch of lace against her skin like a thousand tiny claws.

Naerys's breath was shallow, her every inhale restrained, as if she feared that even the smallest movement would cause her to shatter. The pins in her hair, tightly wound to hold up her veil, dug into her scalp with cruel precision, and as the night wore on, her husband showed less and less interest in pretending this was anything more than an obligation.

Her eyes drifted to the dance floor where Willem Stokeworth spun yet another woman in his arms. His laughter echoed faintly in her ears, indulging in revelry as though he were a guest at someone else's wedding, not the groom.

And then, of course, there was the matter of her departure. It had been made clear that they were to leave that very evening. She could still hear his cold words, dripping with disdain: "There will be no bedding ceremony, but we leave for Stokeworth castle tonight. There's no point staying here." No point indeed. What, after all, did Naerys matter to anyone?

Her chest tightened at the thought. She wasn't ready. How could she be? The Red Keep had been her home, her world, her sanctuary—her last remaining connection to everything familiar. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind, let alone to be taken to a place that was as foreign to her as her husband. 

Her left hand moved faster now, more aggressively, as if the friction might somehow ground her, while her right spun her mother's sapphire ring in dizzying circles. Around and around it went, the familiar movement offering a brief distraction. 

Around and around, aroundandaroundandaroundandaround—

Then, without warning, it slipped from her grasp, flying off her finger and tumbling to the floor. Naerys's pulse quickened as she watched it roll away, disappearing beneath the table and then kicked out into the hall by someone's pirouetting foot. She made to stand, her body moving on instinct, but stopped short when she saw where the ring had gone. It had rolled into the far edge of the room, a place that suddenly seemed darker than it should have been. The corners of the hall were thick with shadows that felt... wrong, as though they were watching her, waiting.

Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, and a cold dread washed over her. It wasn't just the ring—everything about this night felt wrong. She didn't want to be here anymore. More than anything, she wanted to run. Run from this room, run from this wedding, run from the future that awaited her beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

"Naerys, darling," her mother's voice cut through her spiralling thoughts like a balm. Aemma Arryn reached out and gently grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to the present. "What's wrong, sweetling? You don't look well."

Naerys blinked, realizing how tightly she had been clenching her fists. Her nails had dug into her palms, leaving angry red marks, but she shook her head, trying to force a smile. It came out weak but it was something. After all, it wasn't like she could tell her mother that the dark had suddenly grown teeth. 

"I'm fine, Mother," she lied, but the queen wasn't fooled. The older woman's keen eyes searched her daughter's face with concern, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, her lips pressing a tender kiss to her palm.

"You've been fretting all night, sweet girl. You don't have to go through with this, you know. You can still refuse. All you have to do is say the word, and your father will understand. We all will." She squeezed her wrist lightly, offering a lifeline. "You can sleep in my bed tonight. You'll be safe. There is still time."

For a moment, Naerys felt as though she might crumble right then and there. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. How desperately she wanted to accept that offer, to crawl into her mother's arms and pretend that none of this had happened. 

The anger that followed the grief was startling, and she yanked her hand from Aemma's before fleeing, her steps hurried as she hurried out into the hallway she had seen her ring get kicked into. Let the dark sink its teeth into her, let it drink and drink from her, and maybe along with her blood, it might rid her of the well of sadness she harboured too. 

Outside in the dim corridor, she fell to her knees, her fingers blindly sweeping the polished floor in search of the lost ring. The flickering light from the great hall barely reached this far, leaving her in the hazy embrace of shadow, where her desperation only deepened. The cold stone beneath her fingertips was unyielding, smooth except for the occasional groove or crack where she feared her mother's precious ring had slipped, and her panic only rose. 

Her hands, trembling now, traced every line, every curve, but found nothing. The whisper of her gown against the floor seemed deafening in the quiet hallway, and though she could be grateful that the newly cleaned surface had saved her dress from the dust, her mind was far too consumed with frantic thoughts to care. 

And then she saw it—or thought she did. A glimmer near the wall, something small and shiny caught in the crack between the stones. Hope surged through her like a wave, and without thinking, she wedged her finger into the narrow crevice, feeling for the ring. But instead of the cool metal she longed to find, something sharp sliced into the tender flesh beneath her fingernail, and she recoiled with a gasp of pain. The skin tore, blood welled up, and it was all too much.

Naerys collapsed back against the wall, her hands shaking as she stared at the thin line of blood pooling beneath her nail. The pain was nothing compared to the ache in her chest, the weight that had been building inside her, threatening to break free. Her knees pulled to her chest, and she clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the muffled sounds of laughter and music that seeped from the great hall. Her shoulders quivered with silent sobs, and though she tried to swallow it all down, the despair clawing up her gullet, one shuddering wheeze at a time, refused to be tamed.

It felt like hours passed, though it was only moments, before a hand settled on her shoulder. The young girl flinched, her tear-streaked face lifting to see two figures standing over her—Rhaenyra and Alicent. 

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed with fury, her jaw tight as she took in her sister's dishevelled form. She muttered a curse under her breath, already spinning on her heel to march back toward the great hall, her silver braid whipping behind her like a banner.

Alicent, however, knelt beside Naerys, her expression soft with pity. There was something almost maternal in the way she reached out, though her own youth betrayed the fact that she was hardly more than a girl herself. She handed her something small, the dull gleam of silver and blue catching the low light. It was Aemma's ring, pressed into her palm.

"I was looking for you," the older girl mumbled. "I thought you might like this back."

Naerys's face crumpled at the sight of the object. The tears she had tried so hard to stifle began to fall freely once more, her chest heaving with quiet sobs. She clutched the ring in her hand, her knuckles turning white as she held it close to her heart, as if it were the last thing anchoring her to the world.

"I don't want to leave," she choked out, her voice breaking. "I don't want to go. Why are they sending me away?" Her words tumbled from her lips in a broken rush, each one soaked in fear and anguish. "I don't misbehaved, I don't talk back, I try to be good, so why don't they like me anymore."

"Naerys...that's not—"

"I don't like him at all! He looks mean, and he drinks, and I—I don't want to go away with him."

Her words were a desperate plea, not directed at anyone in particular but spoken into the void, where they would surely be lost, but telling Alicent felt safe. Naerys didn't want to burden her mother, not when she was with child, and Rhaenyra's volatility would only make things worse. She did not wish for her sister to fight the king or anyone else on her behalf. 

No, Alicent was the safest person to confess to, a girl who could do nothing to change her fate. It was a relief to spill her thoughts to someone who would not—could not—intervene, who was equally as powerless. 

For her part, the Hightower listened patiently as Naerys's words dissolved into a tangled mess of incoherent blubbering. When she could no longer speak, she reached forward, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, her touch delicate.

"The gods will reward you for your patience," Alicent hummed soothingly, though there was an undercurrent of resignation. "If your lord father has willed it, you cannot deny him, but you can pray. If no one else listens, the gods do. They will love you all the more for your suffering." Her fingers gently traced the outline of the seven-pointed star onto her palm, a silent reminder of the faith that was supposed to bring them comfort in such times.

"But..." Naerys whimpered as she fought to control the rising tide of panic. Her ribcage closed around her thundering heart, and the air seemed to thicken as she struggled to find her words, each one snagging in her throat. "But—I don't want to suffer!"

What good was any sort of love if the price to be paid was in agony? 

Alicent squeezed her hand again. "I am sorry. Truly, I am. Perhaps you might try to close your eyes and count to ten. My mother used to say it would help." 

It was one of the last things she could still recall of the woman who had birthed her, but Alicent had never been a very good pupil of that particular lesson, and her own hands bore the evidence of that—her cuticles a torn and bleeding reminder of her anxieties. Perhaps Naerys would prove herself to be a better student. 

"You might also recite the names of the Seven. It will summon them to your aid, remind them of your patience."

Naerys hiccupped again, her breathing still ragged as she tried to follow her advice. She closed her eyes, though the darkness behind her lids did little to quiet the storm inside her. Still, she counted, one breath at a time. 

The Father. The Mother. The Maiden. The Crone. The Warrior. The Smith, and the Stranger.

And then when that did not help, she recited the names of every god her mother had told her about. Perhaps one of them might show her some compassion and pluck her from her circumstances.

R'hllor, the Weeping Lady of Lys, the Maiden-Made-of-Light. 

And then...Nyarlathotep.  

The last one she did not recognize. In fact, she had never heard of him at all, but the name emerged from the recesses of her mind all the same, clearer than all the rest, as if something other than her own voice whispered it into existence. It was the name that brought her least comfort, her blood turning thick and viscous in her veins as she compulsively repeated the name over and over, unable to stop. 

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A/N: Friendly reminder that Naerys isn't the typical violent/fiery Visenya coded-character, so bear with her, her strengths don't lie in picking fights. Also, she is eleven so a lot of her decisions might come off as silly or immature but that's cuz she is lol, she's a kid (anxiety-ridden, highly insecure, bad at communication, the whole mental illness shebang). 

Also in actual ASOIF lore, we are given no information on the Church of Starry Wisdom so in this fic it is heavily inspired by the H.P Lovecraft Church of Starry Wisdom and its gods/rituals.

As usual, plz don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!